


Two Waffles but Hold the Bacon

by PixChuu22



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-06
Updated: 2014-09-06
Packaged: 2018-02-16 07:37:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2261352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PixChuu22/pseuds/PixChuu22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: "eating in the same diner every morning and the waitress ALWAYS mixes up our orders so why don't we just sit at the same table to save her the trouble"</p><p>Inspired by a set of AU prompts reblogged by Tumblr user wsswatson: http://sylviatietjens.co.vu/post/96722815168/puppetamateur-okay-but-consider-these-oh-my</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Waffles but Hold the Bacon

**Author's Note:**

  * For [wsswatson](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wsswatson/gifts).



Dr. John Watson pushed open the door to the diner and limped in heavily, leaning on his cane a little harder than he typically did. He'd had a bad night, snatching only moments of sleep between the nightmares of watching men dying on the battlefield, and he was feeling it in his aching leg. Ironically, the bullet wound through his left shoulder and his only physical injury from the war barely hurt at all this morning, but that was the usual. It was incredibly rare for his shoulder to hurt. It was always his leg, his damned leg with an inexplicable pain, that complained at every available opportunity.

"Hello, luv! How's the leg?" The waitress who worked the morning shift, a slim 40-something woman with her ginger hair in a bouncy ponytail, called to him as the diner door slid shut with a soft pneumatic hiss behind him. He gave her a nod in response; this was their routine. Every morning, he would limp in and she would call out a greeting. 

"Fine, just fine," he said, sticking to their script. 

"Be with you in a moment," she said, giving his shoulder a friendly thump as she bustled past him with a tray balanced on her other hand. It was the most human contact he had most days, that quick, gentle fist bumping down on top of his right shoulder as she went past. Had she been more the type of woman John fancied, he'd probably have tried striking up a conversation with her. She was handsome enough, but she just didn't catch his interest. Shame, since she was the one person with whom he interacted regularly, if you could call ordering breakfast 'interacting.' 

He limped to his usual booth and spread out the newspaper he'd had tucked under his arm, clearing his throat as he settled into the comfort of his routine. 

Ever since being invalided out of the army four months before, he'd made a habit of taking breakfast at Speedy's Diner every morning. It was a pinch on his budget, but it got him out of his small, dismal bedsit at least once a day and that was well worth the expense. He was usually up very early in the mornings, rarely sleeping past 5am even if he did manage to escape nightmarish memories of the war. He'd long since lost his ability to sleep in, and he occasionally missed the late weekend mornings he'd indulged in as a student going to uni. 

His early waking wasn't all bad, though. It meant that he could get to the diner before the breakfast rush. There were only a few old age pensioners seated inside the cafe, enjoying their quiet, solitary breakfasts as they paged through books or read the newspaper. 

He heard the bell above the diner door chime and sat up straighter in his booth, eyes sliding up from his own newspaper. If he was completely honest with himself, this was the other reason he came to Speedy's Diner every morning: the tall, dark-haired man with the beautiful, angular face who arrived ten minutes after John nearly every day. The man moved with a dancer's grace, weaving through the tables to sit in his usual place which, thankfully, put him fully in John's line of sight. 

"Hello, Sherlock," the waitress said, walking by and giving the gorgeous man a welcoming smile. "Be with you in a moment, luv." 

John sighed softly before turning his attention back to the newspaper. Seeing Sherlock was the bright spot of his day, although he'd never attempted to strike up a conversation with the other man. After all, John was a limping war veteran in his late-30s living on an army pension with nothing much to offer a romantic partner. And that was assuming the other man was even inclined to date a bloke. And Sherlock... well, John really didn't know anything about Sherock other than the fact that he'd been blessed by genetics, had a voice like the purr of a very large housecat, and dressed like he'd stepped out of the center spread of a magazine. 

"What'll it be?" the waitress asked, stopping next to John's table with a smile. 

"Earl Grey, two waffles, but hold the bacon," John began, and the waitress cut him off with a quick laugh. 

"Substitute a roasted tomato; same as always, eh?" 

"Well, I like routine," John said, giving her a tight smile. She gave him another quick pat on the shoulder, nodding. 

"All right, luv. It'll be ready in a moment." And then she was sweeping away to Sherlock's table, her smile increasing in wattage as she looked at the dark-haired man. "What'll it be, Sherlock?" 

"Smoked salmon and scrambled eggs with a cappuccino," Sherlock said, and John delighted in the sound of the deep bass of his voice rumbling across the twenty or so feet that separated them. 

Sherlock's breakfast was the same one he'd ordered for the last two weeks, John thought. Interesting. He'd been working his way through the diner's breakfast options before that. Apparently, he'd settled on something. 

"Have another late night, Sherlock?" the waitress asked, giving him a sympathetic look as she finished jotting his order down on her order pad. 

"'Late?' I suppose; I haven't been to sleep yet." 

"Oooh, then I'll bring out your cappuccino double-quick," the waitress said, sweeping away. 

Sherlock turned his attention to his mobile as soon as she'd left and John returned to his newspaper, enjoying the quiet clink of silverware against ceramic as the other diners ate. He always felt marginally less alone during this part of his day, and it made the rest of it slightly more bearable. 

The waitress thumped his cup of tea down at his elbow, speaking as she was moving away. "Food'll be out in a minute, luv." 

John reached down to lift the cup absently, engaged by a story about the upcoming elections. It wasn't until he'd taken a sip that he realized the waitress had done it again: his Earl Grey was a cappuccino. 

"I believe that's mine," a deep voice murmured at his side and John jumped, setting the cup down a bit harder than he'd intended and sloshing some of the coffee over the lip. "I've startled you. Sorry about that." 

John looked up, eyes sweeping up the aubergine button-up shirt to the face of Sherlock, a faint smile playing at his lips as he looked down at John. Up close, John could see that Sherlock's eyes were the palest blue-green, tilted slightly upward at the outside edges, and absolutely captivating. For a moment, John could only stare into them, overwhelmed by how much more lovely the man was up close. Then, John was blinking and looking down at the misdelivered cup of coffee. 

"Oh. Right, yeah. Sorry - I've already taken a sip of it. I can buy you another one?" 

"No matter," Sherlock said, leaning to place John's own cup of Earl Grey in front of the seated man. "I believe you're the one our waitress has been delivering my breakfasts to for the last four months?" 

John gave a quick laugh. That was the precise reason he had been somewhat unsurprised when he'd tasted coffee rather than tea; almost from his first visit to Speedy's Diner, the waitress had been mixing up his and Sherlock's breakfasts. At first, John had assumed she was new and possibly forgetful. After a month, though, he'd come to almost enjoy the misdelivered breakfasts, since it gave him a few seconds to give Sherlock a wry glance as the waitress was rectifying the switching of their meals. 

"Yeah, that would be me," John said, smiling up at the taller man. 

"Since she's bound to do it again today, perhaps we could save time and share a table," Sherlock said, leaning down slightly to rest his fingertips on the Formica tabletop of John's booth, invading John's space subtly. 

John felt stunned. Was this gorgeous man _flirting_ with him? But, no, of course not; Sherlock probably only intended to stay until the meals were delivered and then he would undoubtedly return to his usual table. "Yeah, sure. Of course. I don't mind." 

Sherlock slid into the booth seat opposite John, sliding his cappuccino in front of him once he was settled. "The name is Sherlock Holmes." 

"John Watson," John said, holding his hand across the table. Sherlock gripped it for a moment before he narrowed his eyes slightly. He was staring at John with focused intensity. John felt a little like he was under a microscope, but, strangely, he wasn't bothered by it. 

"How long have you been retired from service?" 

"I... what?" 

"You were in the military," Sherlock said, wrapping his long-fingered hands around the coffee cup as he stared at John. "I've watched you when you leave the diner. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says 'military.' Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you seem to forget about it when you're standing, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic. Wounded in action, then. Your face is tanned, but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Wounded in action, suntan - was it Afghanistan or Iraq?" 

"It... Afghanistan." John was stunned, the word hardly more than a whisper as he stared across at Sherlock. The other man got a satisfied smile on his face, twining his fingers together on the tabletop. "You got all that from how I walk and that I've got a tan? That's amazing." 

The smile on Sherlock's face increased slowly as he looked at John. "Do you think so?" 

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary; it was quite extraordinary." John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the tabletop as he clasped his hands just under his chin. "How on earth did you do that?" 

Sherlock's smile faded and he lifted his cappuccino, taking a sip before he answered. "I pay attention. I pick up information and put it together to determine obvious truths. Most people _see_ but they don't _observe_." 

"And you... observe?" 

"Everything," Sherlock said, giving a nod. "It's something I've always done, although I've been honing my skill for the last few years. I'm starting my own detective business. It's small now, but growing." 

"Well, if you're always as spot on as you have been about me, I shouldn't wonder if you don't end up being world famous," John admitted, unable to keep the admiration out of his voice. "What else can you tell from looking at me?" 

"Well... the clothing you typically wear is always clean but most of it is older; you aren't spending much on updating your wardrobe after returning home. That suggests that you're living on a budget, probably an army pension. Yet you come here every morning, and while the food is passable, it's hardly worth the difficulty of budgeting for, so you come for another reason. Perhaps you enjoy the company of others eating?" 

"Uh... yeah, actually," John admitted. 

"Hmm." Sherlock was smiling again. "I thought so. Live alone, no real close friends or acquaintances?" 

"Well, that makes my life sound incredibly depressing," John said, giving a quick laugh, but he could feel a sinking in the pit of his stomach. Was he that obvious? 

"You've moved tables!" The waitress's cheerful voice startled John and he looked over. She had their plates balanced on her arms and she set them down, smiling widely as she glanced between the two of them. "That's nice, isn't it? A little company with breakfast. Can I get you lads anything else?" 

"No, thank you," John said automatically before turning to glance at Sherlock. The other man shook his head faintly and the waitress bustled away to check on the scant few other customers. John was reaching down to move his plate towards Sherlock when he realized that his order was, for the first time in four months, correct. A plate of waffles and a roasted tomato sat in front of him and Sherlock's smoked salmon and eggs were in front of him. 

"She... she got it right?" John asked, turning to look after the retreating waitress. 

"I suspected she'd been switching our meals in an attempt to get us to sit down together," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows slightly as he caught John's eyes and held them. "I thought it was time we rewarded her perseverance." 

John couldn't help the smile that stretched across his face and the smile Sherlock gave him in return sent a wild flutter through his stomach. The man was ridiculously attractive when he smiled. John was beginning to think that he should risk hitting on the other man; Sherlock seemed interested and until John attempted it, he wouldn't know what the answer might be. But before John could even open his mouth, Sherlock spoke again. 

"Would you, by any chance, be interested in a flatshare? I have my eye on a nice little place in central London; together we ought to be able to afford it." Sherlock was still meeting John's eyes frankly, barely even blinking. The butterflies in John's stomach were still fluttering and he could feel a faint flush high on his cheeks. Share a flat with this gorgeous, intense man? He'd be mad to say no. 

"Central London? That should be expensive," he said. "You're right about my army pension; I wouldn't be able to afford -" 

"No, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. Owes me a favor. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out," Sherlock explained, taking a forkful of his smoked salmon and eggs and popping it into his mouth as he finished speaking. 

"Sorry, you stopped her husband being executed?" John asked, wondering how Sherlock had managed that. 

"Oh, no. I ensured it." 

John couldn't stop his startled laugh. He set his fork down on his plate and rested his hands palm-down on the Formica tabletop, staring at Sherlock with a soft smile. After a moment of silence, Sherlock's own face softened into a return smile, his eyes crinkling endearingly at the corners. 

"All right," John said, lifting his fork to stab into a bite of waffle. "We'll go look at a flat together. How about tomorrow, after breakfast?" 

"I'll see you at the usual time, then," Sherlock agreed, his face serious. "We can share your booth again, if you're willing?" 

"Oh, I'm _very_ willing," John said, not even trying to keep the suggestive tone out of his voice, and Sherlock smiled. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so very much for reading this fic. If you haven't yet, please take a moment to leave Kudos (and, if you are reading this Note at the very end, I assume you enjoyed it enough to WANT to leave Kudos). Comments are my addiction; I love to chat. Don't hesitate to ask questions or just say how much you enjoyed reading.
> 
> You can follow my Tumblr for updates and random writerly musings plus reblogs of Johnlock theories and metas that catch my attention: pixchuu221b.tumblr.com
> 
> See you in the next fanfic.


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